The Lonely Night

The lonely night is never done;
It stretches on, in endless wake –
And closes in with memories
And dreams, beneath a constant ache

To walk upon the haunted earth,
To lie upon a sleepless bed,
To hope for nothing but the dark,
And pray that slumber’s just ahead –

But restless, rising up to go,
To walk out towards the waxing light –
These barren trees, they know the dark,
They’ve wrestled with the lonely night

The day will come – it always has –
But eyes will not be there to see:
The night will claim its prize at last,
The pride in you
The hope in me

The Pride of Lucy

Lucy sat out in the sun
In cold and clear September;
She modeled for us her new life,
I always will remember

The pride she wore upon her face
As she soaked in the rays;
Not knowing pills and Crystal Head
Would soon cut short her days.

The pride of Lucy, young and full
Of beauty and its power;
The sharpened razor blades, so cold,
That hacked to death

The flower


 

(“The Pride of Lucy” – 12-27-2015)

murray river basin

the earth is thirsty

the earth is thirsty so am i
out past where we all come to die
alone and without celebrant
a wastrel bard irrelevant
the half-cocked eye the shaking lip
fair captain of a foundered ship
the desert plain of fated need
to thirst to ache
to drop

to bleed

Graveyard Walk

Graveyard in Fall

Light, the leaves beneath my feet
Soft and silent is the way;
There among the many who
Walked the paths of yesterday

Cool, blows Autumn on the air
Through the paths and stones I thread;
To take counsel with my thoughts
There among the vaulted dead

Those, there are who morbid call
Graveyard roaming such as this;
But its living and not dying
That is truly
The
Abyss


 

(“Graveyard Walk” – 10-24-2014)

Shoes

He’d heard that shoes could make the man.
And so he chose them, carefully:
To show his mastery and span
Of wide parts of society

But one day, when he had to go,
He left one here, to long decay;
It’s empty of its context now,
And baldly shorn of its cachet

For things that outward we display,
Without our inwards, lack all worth:
Like tracks whose trains have gone away,
Or blogs whose authors flee
The earth

The Show Goes On

The show goes on; the dead have played their part.
But still we wait for one more cue, or line:
Those ne’er said words that we have known by heart,
And memorized, as though a valentine

That we will never feel in hand, or see.
The looked for, listened for, and waited on
That will not heed our cry, or hear our plea;
For love’s most fully owned when it is gone.

The show goes on; the dead have played their role,
But there’s no point in dialogue, or mark;
You live, although you’re missing half your soul,
A sunflower within the gray and dark —

    For none of it makes any kind of sense,
    The scene, the plot, the play, the

    Audience